


Like Water for Cumberbatch

by froofie



Category: Benedict Cumberbatch - Fandom, Sherlock (TV), Sherlock - Fandom
Genre: Cooking, Eating, F/M, First Kiss, First Meeting, Flirting, Flirty, Food, Meet-Cute, POV First Person, cheltenham literary festival
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-15
Updated: 2013-04-15
Packaged: 2017-12-08 15:17:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,778
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/762875
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/froofie/pseuds/froofie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A meet-cute, non-smutty, story about meeting Benedict Cumberbatch while working the Cheltenham Literary Festival.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Like Water for Cumberbatch

 

I blame Benedict Cumberbatch for the first accidental knife cut I ever gave myself as a professional chef.

Naturally I’d injured myself before, many times during my training, but somehow I expected those. When I got the gig to work the guest food table at the Cheltenham Literary Festival, I thought I had a clean start. But, accidents happen. Fortunately, it was the _only_ mistake I’d make that day.

Cooking alone like a fiend since 5am, it’s a wonder I hadn’t hurt myself earlier. By the time he sauntered into the large industrial kitchen at 3pm, I was fairly punchy and covered in bits of food and my own sweat. I kept myself entertained by singing along to my iPod which may or may not have been playing fairly loud. I had been whistling along to _Lovely Head_ , totally lost in chopping a red pepper when it happened.

 

“I SAID, ‘I REALLY LIKE THAT SONG!’” a deep voice erupted out of thin air.

Being characteristically skittish and torn out of an hypnotic state, I jumped a foot in the air at the unexpected noise, my hand slipped and sliced through the tight purple latex glove at my thumb. I hissed, cursed and THEN looked up to see who was standing in the doorway two metres away to my right.

“Oh shit, did you cut yourself? I’m so sorry.” The tall ginger rushed to my side. Oh God, he was gorgeous. Shit shit shit, I’m a mess and, I looked down at my thumb, bleeding.

I ran to the sink, ripping off the glove.

“Here, let me help.” He bounded over and turned on the tap. I shoved my hand under the cool stream. I winced at the pinching pain.

“Oh no, I’m so sorry.” Was that a little lisp? He smelled nice. Uh-oh.

“I think it’s going to be fine,” I motioned for the paper towels and he brought the roll over, “but can you hand me the cayenne pepper over there?” I pointed with my nose to the row of organic spices on the counter.

“Yes, of course.”

I dried off the wound and found it still bleeding  even with pressure. I must have cut deeper than I imagined. He came back with the pepper.

“Dust a little on a paper towel for me.” He was unfailingly obedient and eager to please.

I took a pinch of the pepper and sprinkled it on the wound, which made the bleeding stop immediately. He watched attentively, standing very close for someone I just met.

“That’s extraordinary!” he smiled and looked like a ten-year old boy. I’m pretty sure I was cured on the spot by the first glimpse of that grin. I felt slightly lightheaded and couldn't tell if it was from shock or his piercing grey eyes penetrating mine. What the hell?!

I composed myself.

“It’s an old trick. Cayenne pepper is a coagulant and has anti-bacterial qualities. I’ve used it so many times on cuts that have a hard time clotting. An ER friend of mine told me about it. Saved me a loads of trips to hospital!” I put a bandage on the wound and put on two gloves over my hand.

“Are you going to be able to do your job?” He seemed sincerely embarrassed that he may have ruined something.

“Oh, yeah. I’m perfectly fine, thank you. Sorry I jumped, I was in another world in my head. What is it that you were saying to me when you came in?”

“Um...Oh! I liked this song,” he pointed to the iPod dock. “Goldfrapp, yeah?”

“Yes!” The song was fading away. I went to turn the volume down.

“Oh, don’t turn it down on my account. I’m Benedict.” He reached his (large) hand out to me and I shook it, happy to feel a very firm grip and soft skin. I gave him my name.

“So, what’s cooking?” He shoved his hands into his jeans shyly. I wanted to stare at him, the urge to watch him was an uncontrollable impulse, but I managed to return to what I was doing, aware of my deadlines.

“At the moment, I’m making a Thai chicken salad for the J.K. Rowling post-show reception.” I managed to properly slice up a new red pepper with clean knife and dump it in a bowl already full with other ingredients.

“Do you need any help?” I shot my head up and looked at him.

“I’m sorry, are you -” I went to ask if he was sent from the reception organizers.

“- bored. I’m a little bit bored,” he laughed and scratched under his nose with a (long) finger and coyly flicked his eyes at me. That smile again.

“Do you work for the Festival?”

“Oh! No. Gosh! I’m sorry, you must think me strange just sauntering in here. I’m doing a Q&A after J.K.”

“OH! Yes! Benedict...Cumberbatch!” I looked over at my printed schedule on the counter, careful to make sure I was pronouncing his name correct. “I didn’t make the connection when you introduced yourself. Yes. I’m doing your reception, too. Um... shouldn't you be getting ready or something? Vocal exercises or I don’t know...are you an author or...”

“Actor. I play Sherlock Holmes on the BBC’s _Sherlock_. I just got here very early. My publicist told me to be here at two thirty when I didn’t need to be here until four, really. It’s a trick to make sure I arrive on time.”

“I know that trick, use it on my friends who are notoriously late.”

“I don’t blame her, really, it was a long drive up from London. You can never be too careful. But I’ve just been wandering around the building killing time. I should probably let you get back to it.” He started to walk out, but just slow enough to give me time to invite him to stay.

“No, no, please. I could use the company. Been cooped up in here since this morning.” He seemed very pleased.  “How much time do you have?”

“Probably over an hour. The stage manager will come find me I’m sure.”

“Well, don’t let me keep you. It can get sort of boring in here.” I moved on to cleaning napa cabbage in the sink.

 

“Oh, I bet there’s fun to be had,” he clapped his hands and rubbed them together, looking around at the supply counter full of fresh vegetables and other sundries, “What can I do?”

“I suppose you could chop those.” I pointed to the cardboard box bursting with Roma tomatoes.

“Oh, _no_!” He smiled and snapped his head down, squinting as if in defeat. He reluctantly reached for the box.

“What’s this now?”  I put a chopping block down on the counter across from mine, close by. On purpose.

“If my fans could see this, they would be _howling_ with laughter.” He took off his coat and rolled up his sleeves. He was wearing jeans and a light blue shirt buttoned up all the way. It was easy to overlook his fashion choices when they seemed to be covering up what looked like a very hot body. A bead of sweat rolled down my spine. Ahem.

“Do tell.” I was a little taken aback by the fact that he had fans.  He didn't give off an air of being famous. Of course he would have fans, he was doing a Q&A _after_ J.K. Rowling.

“I went on this morning chat show once and begrudgingly said I’d stay and do the cooking segment. They made me chop an onion, which I did well at, but then I had to cut a tomato and I RUINED IT. The knife was dull. I felt like Captain Caveman with his club mucking up a garden. Now I have a reputation for not being able to chop tomatoes.” His enunciation was impeccable.

“Fortunately for you there are no cameras in here, that I’m aware of. Although I could always film you chopping properly and could leak it out on the internet...? These are going in to make a pasta sauce, so I don’t need uniformity, just give me chunks. This is a better instrument to cut with.” I handed him a serrated knife. He washed his hands, put on gloves and cut the first tomato into four parts swiftly. I could not get past his long fingers.

“See, that was the problem. I was using one of those,” he pointed to my chef’s knife, “I would have done so much better with this kind.” He seemed to have gained a wind of confidence. He relaxed a little more and chopped the whole container in less than five minutes.

"Well done!" He perked up at the compliment.

“My friends will be shocked that I’m good at cutting more than just the cheese.” Ice. Broken. We both laughed, stopping what we were doing to really let it out.

“Oh! I forgot! I have to put you in a hairnet...unless you have a hat.” I really hated for him to cover up his lovely curls, but I didn’t want to get caught violating health codes.

“Yeah, I have a hat. Will this do?” He pulled out and donned a baker boy cap. Much sexier than the hair net I was wearing...oh shit I was wearing a FUCKING HAIR NET.

“Perfect.” Sigh.

“What next?” He looked around, once again eager, fingers tapping on the metal counter. I wondered if he was like this all the time, it was quite refreshing to be around someone so openly... _happy_.

“Wanna play with my Cuisinart?”

“I thought you’d never ask!” He winked at me. It was all I could do not to climb over the counter and hug him, for starters. Instead I smiled and set up the machine at his station.

“Why don’t you get out the baby carrots for me.”

“Where are they?” he said, looking around.

“Fridge.” I pointed.

He found the bushel and went to work, delivering exactly what I needed. I had him empty the contents into the salad bowl and wash out the food processor. Next, he blended the tomatoes. I let him toss in the basil, garlic, olive oil, balsamic vinegar, salt and pepper until the air in the kitchen smelled distinctly Italian. I put the sauce on the stove to heat up.

We talked about what we did, my occupation being slightly more obvious. He talked about being an actor and how much it meant to him to have people supporting his projects. It was very clear he cared more about the work and less about the perks, though his appreciation for everything that came to him was staggering. I could see why his star rose high even if I hadn't seen anything he did. I made a mental note to change that.

I found him to be completely charming and very funny, masculine but boyish. There was something interesting about him that I don’t think he would have known about himself. He gave off a very strong vibe that made you want to give him all your attention, but there was also this other part, a deeply private part, that didn’t seem to like the scrutiny. He admitted to being profoundly nervous about the Q&A. I found this yin-yang incredibly alluring. I wondered how obvious it was that I was enjoying his company, whether everyone he encountered, especially the women around him, didn’t struggle with wanting to be with him regardless of how he felt about them. He seemed to be having fun with me, but I didn’t know if that was just his general attitude around everyone or if a connection was happening.

What I found the most refreshing, if it could have gotten any more exhilarating, was his unbounded curiosity matched with his ability to listen. I figured just from his ability to take in what I was saying without racing to talk over me, his eagerness to please and take direction well that he was probably a phenomenal actor. Feeling heard always makes me feel more at ease around someone. It was very easy to be around him. He mostly asked questions and I found myself happy to tell him just about anything, when I'm usually quiet or busy asking questions myself.

We talked about music and discovered we liked many of the same artists. Indeed, whilst immersed in our rhythms of chopping, peeling and taste-testing, we found ourselves singing along to Bjork and dancing along to Michael Jackson’s _PYT_.

“Are we having a cheesy _Big Chill_ moment?” I groaned, passing behind him to stir the sauce on the stove, sneaking a glance at his little bum shimmying.

“Only if I do this,” he whirled around, put both his hands around my waist to turn me to face him, pulled me in, twirled us around and dipped me. When he brought me back up, he held me a little bit longer than I expected before letting me go.

“You’re hired!” I laughed, nervously, pretending to myself that I didn’t want to go back to being held by him. My weak legs reminded me how I actually felt.

“I’ll work for the nibbles,” he took a cheeky lick of hot Thai peanut sauce from his finger.

Please lord, let him be single.

“Well, since that’s all I get, too, I think I can afford you.”

“As a chef, surely you must eat the most delicious meals at incredible restaurants...”

“You know the expression, _the shoemaker’s children go barefoot?_ ” I poured the peanut sauce over the salad ingredients and mixed everything together.

“Yeah...”

“I’m usually too busy cooking for others to really go out and sample what my peers are doing. I mostly just nosh as I work. There’s no real distinction between breakfast, lunch or dinner, it’s just: put whatever is in front of me in my mouth when I need it.” Subtext? Maybe.

“Well, at least it’s delicious...” He popped a piece of roasted chicken in his mouth, eyeing me. I found myself staring at his lips moving together. He noticed.

“Ack!” The tomato sauce bubbled over onto the stove-top, I ran over to control it.

“I’m distracting you...” He wetted some paper towels and cleaned off the pot. Our gloved hands touched while managing the mess and I felt something, a spark.

“Only in the best possible way.” I flicked my eyes over and saw him smile to himself. The sauce damage was taken care of but we both stood close by the stove, not wanting to move. There was a thick, growing energy between us. My heart was beating in my chest, the cut on my thumb throbbed.  The urge to feel him under my touch, to look up at his face, was intense.

“BENEDICT! CHRIST! HAS ANYONE SEEN BENEDICT?!” a voice suddenly echoed loudly down the long hallway, a young man in a headset rushed passed the kitchen door. Benedict broke away, reluctantly. I took in a huge breath.

“I’m in here!” He walked to the door. I felt our time was slowly slipping away and I was stunned to find myself overwhelmed with sadness. I went back to starting on the pasta for the baked rigatoni, momentarily forgetting I had a job to do, a job which was mostly done, I had to remind myself, lest I felt guilty for getting caught up in the unexpected, the very sudden and the very handsome, preoccupation.

“Ah, good. They want you for a photo-shoot before the talk.” 

“Okay, where do you need me?” He started to put his coat on while the stage manager miked him. His whole energy changed to something more professional. It was fascinating to watch the transition.

“Just over here.” The stage manager motioned for him to follow. Benedict looked over his shoulder at me, I mimed for him to take the cap off. He did and he ran his fingers through his hair. I gave the (wounded) thumbs up.

While the pasta boiled, I peeked out into the hallway to find him just a few metres away having his picture taken, flashes coming from the hallway perpendicular to the one I was in. The stage manager walked back over to the kitchen to watch with me.

“There are some very delicious things happening over there,” Benedict pointed in my direction, the camera clicked. I blushed, understanding he meant more than the food.

“He’s the nicest person we’ve ever had on our panel here,” the young man said to me, still watching Benedict. “I’ve never met someone so open and accommodating. Most celebrities are demanding and snobbish. Or drunk.”

“I imagine it must be hard to be yourself in front of large groups of strangers when you’re used to being other people. Not to defend anyone, but I’d probably need some liquid courage, too. In fact, here.” I went to my liquor stash and poured out a little glass of whiskey. “Put this on stage for Benedict instead of water.”

“I’ll go place it so it’s ready when J.K. is done in about,” he checked his watch, “Oh shit...five minutes! FIVE MINUTES” He called into his headset and ran back down the hallway, grabbing Benedict on his way. I caught a glimpse of Benedict's hand waving goodbye as he was whisked down the corridor.

I returned to the kitchen, aware that something was missing. I eventually got so busy setting up the reception food that I wasn’t able to think about how much better it would have been had he been there to help.

Once J.K.’s reception was over and I’d gotten the food for Benedict’s reception ready,  I was able to sneak into the green room to watch the live feed of his Q&A. I saw him take a sip of the whiskey and smiled to myself as my heavy eyelids slowly forced their way down.

OoOoOo

“Ma’am! Pardon, ma’am!” I shot awake to find the stage manager standing over me in the green room. Benedict was still on the TV screen.

“I’m so sorry, but there’s been a change of plans. Benedict is doing a book signing afterwards. We can still pay you for your food, but would it be okay if we offered it to the fans who are waiting in line?” I rubbed my eyes, realizing I still had on my work gloves.

“Yes, yes, of course, just tell me where to set up.”

The stage manager went to show me the room.

“Tell me, will Benedict get to eat anything?”

“I think he’ll be busy signing, but I can ask.”

“Come back to the kitchen and get me before he starts, can you do that?”

“Oh sure.”

I made quick work of getting the food set up for the fans, who were already starting to line up. They looked like a fun bunch of people.

I ran to the kitchen, taking stock of the ingredients left and decided I could make a special plate of food for Benedict to nosh on while he signed books and met fans. I concocted a sushi roll with what I had on hand: an interior of  boiled shrimp, avocado, cucumber, chopped ginger and spicy mayonnaise hugged by nori and sticky rice. I fanned out the roll on a plate and sprinkled soy sauce over everything. The stage manager burst into the kitchen just as I finished.

“Here, give this to Benedict. Tell him the job is his if he wants it. Bring band aids and his dancing shoes.” I got a strange look, but he took the plate and disappeared. I put another roll together for myself, feeling pretty chuffed that I made something so unexpectedly delicious so fast.

I snuck around to watch a bit of the book signing. It was easy to be sucked into observing him work. His charm never ceased. I saw him pop a roll into his mouth in between fans. He licked his lips (those lips!) and smiled to himself. That was all I needed. I went back to the kitchen to tackle the mess from the day. I’d been up for almost 20 hours. The nap and recalling my fun afternoon gave me a good third wind. I turned up my iPod loud and got to cleaning, trying to avoid thinking about the fact that I'd never see him again, except maybe on television.

Just as I started packing up the last of my equipment, indeed I was sheathing a knife, rocking out to the sixth movement of Brahms' _Requiem_ , a familiar and unexpected voice called out behind me.

“THANK YOU FOR THE WHISKEY!”

Naturally, I jumped. I turned around to find him beaming, but tired, in the doorway. I turned down the music.

“You’re welcome!” I was overjoyed to see him again and decided to make it clear.

“And the sushi...” He walked closer.

“You’re welcome. I’m naming that roll after you, I think.”

“Oh? What will you call it?”

“The Unexpected Benedict, a Welcomed Guest In My Kitchen.”

“That’s a mouthful.” He was standing very close now. I had to crane my neck to make eye contact.

“I’m pretty sure it is.” It was clear we weren't talking about food anymore. His neck flushed as red as my face felt.

He sucked in a breath and looked around. “Well, I came back to see if you needed any help, hoping you might. But you look done.”

“Efficiency is my middle name.”

“I think we could come up with something better than that.” He smiled down at me. “We should probably talk about it over dinner.”

“What?”

“A woman like you deserves more than just nibbles. I think I need to treat you to a proper meal.”

“NOW? But it’s midnight. What’s open?”

“Hmm. Well, I don’t know the area, do you?" 

“No, I’m heading back to London anyway.” He stepped closer, our bodies were touching.

“Breakfast then?” His voice became quiet.

“Well, it’s only going to take two hours to get ho-”

He wiggled his eyebrows at me. I finally got it.

“Yes, breakfast sounds perfect.”

“Good. I’ve got some eggs and waffles at my place.”

“Wake me up when it’s ready.” He smiled at my encouragement and took my hand, lifting it. 

“I will. How's the thumb?”

“It’s doing alright.”

“Maybe I should kiss it better?” I could feel his breath, warm on my forehead.

“Sure,” I looked over at my hand resting in his, waiting for him to bend down to it.

Instead, he lifted up my chin with his (long) finger and kissed me.

  
Nothing about him shocked me after that.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to i-ship-an-armada and whispersofafangirl for looking it over and for the great advice.
> 
> Title is a spin off the book Like Water for Chocolate, which I highly recommend. The movie, however, is crap IMHO.


End file.
